


D-List Celebrity

by pentapus



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Wayne family in the public eye, jason's complicated issues with everything Wayne, reality tv shows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-15 23:00:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10559146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentapus/pseuds/pentapus
Summary: “You look ridiculous,” Jason said. “Pull your hat back down.”





	

“It's going to be fine,” Dick said cheerfully.

Jason couldn't tell if the cheer was real or not, and it had him on edge, worse than Bruce and his extravagant public personas. At least Jason could tell when Bruce's mask came down; Dick seemed to live in his. 

“You look ridiculous,” Jason said. “Pull your hat back down.”

Dick lifted his sunglasses up instead, showing off the ugly collage of blue and purple arcing out from the inner edge of his eye. He grinned, grating along Jason's nerves. “Why? This black eye is a matter of public record.” 

The eye would look worse tomorrow, and Jason had to look away because he didn't want to think about watching it happen on TV. On TV to _Richard Grayson,_ who couldn't do a damn thing about the punch headed for him, not even accidentally-on-purpose, because the whole thing was being recorded.

Dick had taken the punch like a pro, no hint he was anything more than a celebrity hostage.

Batgirl had gotten him out in the end, the rest of the family told to stay back, maintain the hermetic seal between Dick’s nightlife and daylife. Jason hadn't given a shit about Bruce's orders, but he'd been busy puking into a trash can after the worst flashback he'd had in a year. And he didn't know why. There wasn't _anything_ about this that was anything like the warehouse, the crowbar, the laughter—

It bothered him. It was why he was still fucking _here_ , an ID in his back pocket that said _DarkNite Personal Security Services_ , trying to tell his stupid D-list celebrity client to put his fucking hat and sunglasses back on while they were still on the street.

“It wasn't even national news.” 

Jason thought about punching Dick in the other eye, but he'd already spotted two photographers sidling along the street outside the club. Dick was probably lingering out here on purpose, except he wasn't quite looking Jason in the eye, and there was something a little forced about the lightness of his laugh. 

Jason wanted Dick to be having trouble because _Jason_ was having trouble. He would feel less stupid if he could project his own skyscraper levels of avoidance onto someone else. Of course, if Dick did breakdown, Jason would run face first into another bullshit problem his brain had gifted him with post mortem, which was that Dick breaking down made Jason almost as nauseous as _Bruce_ breaking down. He didn't want anyone to be able to break their composure but _him_. 

Bruce and Dick had been the deus ex machina that had lifted Jason out of his dumpster-diving, preteen desperation. He had been struck-stupid by them for years. Jason hated, _hated_ Bruce and Dick still having that hold on him. He was running out of sledgehammers to take to that pedestal.

Jason hooked his fingers in the belt holding up his bargain-rack black slacks and gave Dick a look that said exactly how many shits he didn’t give.

Dick winced. “It was _barely_ national news.”

(It had definitely been national news.)

 _For fuck’s sake._ Jason slapped the brim of Dick's hat back down and headed for the VIP line. 

The bouncer’s polite skepticism at his approach stymied Jason for a moment. It drew out awkwardly until the bouncer’s skepticism began to grow less polite. Jason had bullshitted his way into arms deals and drug shipments, but he'd never done this — not _exactly_ this — and apparently part of him still believed rich people had a secret language he couldn’t hack, an intricate dance like the court of Versaille Jason had loved reading about in the Manor’s library.

“Hey,” Jason said finally, “I've got somebody for your list.”

The bouncer crossed his arms, leaving the tablet strapped to his hand under one elbow. “He a member?”

The world quieted for a moment, and Jason had the calm, clear thought, _if Dick brought me and his naked face to a rogue hang out where you need an affidavit from the Penguin to get in, I will murder him with my own two hands._

Then he remembered that rich people were nuts and did things like offer memberships to bars and imitation speakeasies. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, sighing. “Sorry, man, I don't know. He's a new client — can you check?”

The bouncer's eyebrows went up at the word _client_. He took in Jason's nondescript cheap black wardrobe just this side of business casual, the hint of ‘brick shithouse’ the clothes didn't conceal, and his expression twitched sympathetically.

“Yeah, man,” he said, “I can check that for you.” 

Dick popped up at Jason's shoulder. “It's the Wayne account.”

The bouncer blinked. He didn’t say anything, but his expression went tight like he smelled bullshit. He knew the name; he just didn’t think Dick looked like someone who should be using it. Which meant — great, this was a _Brucie_ hang out. 

Jason had to grit his teeth to shut down the knee-jerk anger. So it took him a moment to notice the skeptical once over the bouncer was giving Dick, his eyes lingering on Dick's thighs, his narrow waist, the long lean of him against Jason's shoulder. The bouncer looked surprised, then impressed, and gave a little shrug that seemed to say, _Huh, you learn something new every day_. 

“When should we expect Mr. Wayne?” the bouncer asked, tapping at the tablet.

Jason felt a mean smile spread slowly across his face. Dick stared, completely wrong-footed like he hadn’t considered _why_ Bruce would keep an account at an exclusive bar or what it would look like when someone who looked like _Dick_ tried to use it.

Fuck Dick’s emotional control, and fuck that deus ex bullshit. This felt amazing. 

“There's more than one Wayne,” Dick said, an edge to his voice that made Jason laugh out loud. Telling people _Mr. Wayne decided to keep me permanently_ had never dispelled these rumors before so why would it now? Dick wanted basic human decency -- as though a voyeuristic interest in weird celebrity sex was anything _but_ basically human.

The bouncer’s smile disappeared into one of those service industry full-body winces where he tried to hide how fucked he knew he was. He’d probably heard the news. This week, _everyone_ remembered there was a second Wayne. 

Jason didn’t wait to find out if Dick would react like Nightwing or like a kid who'd gotten an Aston Martin for his sixteenth birthday _and_ his twenty-first. “Thanks,” Jason told the bouncer, “and I mean that.” He knew his grin was a little too nasty, and he didn’t give a shit. He dragged Dick inside.

Dick yanked his hat off, mouth a hard unhappy line. He looked like he was looking for a place to throw it. Jason grabbed the hat, stuffed it into his back pocket.

“Hey, what are you, a mess?” Jason said. “You wanted to go out, look carefree but boring, and _cut off_ the personal interest trauma story, remember? That fucked up look on your face is not helping.”

“Yeah. Ok.” Dick pushed past him. He went straight to a particular table, which meant it was Bruce's table which meant the whole wait staff were going to make the same scandalous assumption over and over. Time to shape up, Dickie boy.

“Hey,” Jason hissed, sliding into the clamshell booth next to him instead of across, getting right into Dick’s space, “get over yourself. You’re offended why? Because Bruce is too rich to be a perv? You want to hear some stories about rich pervs?”

That got Dick to look up. Jason sat back, annoyed. He _didn’t_ want to tell any stories about rich pervs. They were non-stories anyway, except for how they existed and Jason knew where they shopped and what was on the menu.

The thing was, pre-death Jason had been right there with Dick on hating the pedo rumors. Post-death Jason had no urge to protect Bruce from the questions he really should have had to answer before picking up another cute orphan at the pound.

Dick’s lips twisted wryly. “I guess I should be flattered the bouncer thought I was up to Bruce’s standards, huh.”

“Don’t fish for compliments,” Jason said, though the bouncer had definitely given them the _if I were queer, I'd hit that_ nod. He rolled his shoulders, making a show of settling into a relaxed sprawl so he didn’t have to look Dick in the eye. He didn’t have a lot of patience for Dick’s humble _Who me?_ act. As if Dick didn’t fucking know he parted crowds. The waitress came by and Jason ordered something in a dark bottle so it’d be difficult for the casual spectator to see how much he’d had.

“Why didn’t we just go to your usual?” he said when she’d left.

Dick shrugged. “What usual? Besides, the people here have practice selling information about Bruce to the gossip column. It’s where he goes when he needs to touch up his reputation.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You really gonna convince me you've got no interest in nightlife? You offered to teach me to make margaritas for my 16th birthday -- ” It had never happened, the birthday _or_ the lesson, “ -- and you once talked to Babs about dancing like it was sex _for hours_. It ruined the, uh.” He hesitated. He wasn't going to say _joint_ _patrol_ in public. "-- night." 

Dick pressed his lips together like he was hiding a smirk. Right -- _night_ life. 

Jason rolled his eyes. “Do you want to get punched again?”

Dick shrugged. “I did all my drinking and dancing with Donna and Wally.” 

Jason had been dead before he'd felt comfortable making friends at school or with the Titans. The latter hadn't been at all promising, but he’d liked the kids at school, the nerdy ones at the nerdy clubs no one would believe Jason might have belonged to now. History, drama, strategy gaming.

“Jay,” Dick said, picking at the label on his beer. “Why are you here?”

Jason smirked, tipping his beer back for a drink, because the real answer was _Jason didn’t fucking know._

Something bothered him about Dick’s celebrity persona getting picked up by a gang with a sporting equipment gimmick, and Jason hadn’t figured out what it was yet. He trusted his own anger, didn’t mind walking into a situation he _knew_ was going to trigger the blackout rage as long as the assholes in his path had every reason to know what was coming. He didn’t like not having a trigger he didn't understand. And he _especially_ didn’t like it when what it triggered wasn’t rage but panic. Puking in a trash can while jackasses slapped Dick around on TV wasn't _useful._

Instead, Jason smirked, shooting a pointed look around the dim interior. “I'm here because none of your baby brothers are old enough to get into this club.”

“My baby sister can.”

Jason paused, bottle raised halfway to his mouth. “Shit, did she _want_ to come?”

Dick gave him a bemused look. “I didn't ask. It wasn't really a…” He'd probably been about to say social outing, except the waitress came by. 

“You haven't taken her out on the town? Is it because she's a girl? Or because she's the hardest to explain? You gotta know Gotham society eats that charity case shit up. I've _seen_ the newspaper articles about you.”

“Joining Bruce's family isn't about money,” Dick said. “It's about family.”

Jason laughed in his face. “No, it isn't. What, was it too long ago for you to remember? It's about _Cinderella_. Erasing your shitty awful life with all the ridiculous, diamond encrusted things you can have now until you _know_ that being poor as shit wasn't about anything but bad luck. And besides, kids love presents. Even the unselfish ones. She deserves it.” Jason glared at his beer. “Hell, even you deserved it.” 

Dick rubbed both hands through his hair, staring at the ceiling with a helpless, bemused look. He let out an explosive sigh.

“Just say what you're fucking going to say.”

“There's nothing I can say that isn't going to get me punched, is there?”

Jason saw red a little. “Well, that fucking qualifies. Don't _handle_ me.”

“But you do have to be handled, don't you?” Dick must have seen something in the set of Jason's shoulders because he lifted a hand, pulling his cell phone out with the other. “Look, you want me to call her?”

“She even in town?”

“She's within an hour flight,” he meant the bat plane, “and this place is open until two, so sure, why not -- ” 

Dick blinked. The phone in his hand was vibrating. He must have recognized the number because he answered it, sticking a finger in his other ear against the music. The soft frown didn't leave his face, so it must not be family. A civilian number calling his civilian phone. 

“Mary? Yeah, I'm out. I'm fine, yeah -- yeah, I have a second.”

Mary Velazquez, Bruce's publicist. Jason picked at his beer label, listening carefully. It couldn't be something from tonight, could it? Maybe Dick had been right about the staff here and how quickly they tipped off the press.

Dick’s expression went a little fixed, staring into the middle distance. He looked like she'd actually surprised him. Jason remembered the bouncer -- what were they saying? Had they said something about Jason? They couldn't, right? The bodyguard was invisible. 

“Well?” Jason said when it ended. 

Dick was staring down at his phone in bemusement. He shook himself a little, thumbing open his contacts like Jason hadn't said anything. “Ok -- you wanted to call Cass.” 

“Dick,” Jason said warningly. 

Dick sighed, his smile ironic -- embarrassed? “It’s nothing. It was silly -- Bruce's PR rep.”

“I know who she is.” Jason had done his research before he'd come back to Gotham, prepared to ruin Bruce in every way. In the end, it hadn't been the effect he'd wanted. But tonight's plan was all PR right now. “Is there something wrong with the bar?” Jason went stiff, scanning the crowded darkness. It was his job. 

Dick laughed -- yeah, he was embarrassed. Jason turned slowly back around. 

“Uh,” Dick said. “She had a publicity opportunity. A -- studio contacted her. About the story.” 

"What, a lifetime movie? Are you serious?”

“No! No, she knows how to turn those down. It was the studio for _Dancing with the Stars_. She thought it was exciting, I guess. She's a fan.” 

Jason blinked. He watched Dick’s wince get deeper and more self-conscious with each beat of silence. When it hit him, Jason let out a laugh best described as a guffaw, incredulous. Only Dick Grayson could turn a televised kidnapping into an invitation to join Dancing with the Stars. Jason was -- not jealous exactly, only he was pretty certain Bruce's PR rep had never had to practice turning down lifetime movies deals about Jason.

“You? When did you make it big, Dick face?” 

“They -- ” Dick sighed. “They saw the broadcast.” 

His cheeks had gone red, and it clogged up in Jason’s throat, the memory of someonein control ofDick, rendering him helpless in a way Jason had never seen coming. Worse, they'd managed it all by accident, not even knowing who he was or how he was holding back; they hadn't earned a second of it. 

“I shouldn't have stepped in front of the kid,” Dick said, “even while pretending to be clueless.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “No, who am I kidding, what I should have done was fallen down and cried while doing it.”

“Wouldn't have worked. You probably cry pretty,” Jason said. He fucking did. Jason had seen him crying over _Jason_ , too little too late. 

“Ugly tears,” Dick suggested hopefully. “With snot. Yeah, laugh it up --”

“You were fucking doomed the moment the producer heard _rescued circus orphan._ ” Jason clinked his bottle against Dick’s. “You're taking it.”

“No, I'm not.” Dick’s voice dropped to something a little more Nightwing, a lot less crowd-pleaser. “I'm _not_ going on _Dancing with the Stars_ , Jason.”

Jason smiled. “You are. Because Cass wants to see Hollywood.”

Dick froze, mouth open, a hamstrung look on his face. Hit where he lived. Jason drank it in.

“Besides,” Jason said, leaning back until he felt the fake ID badge digging into his back pocket, “I could use a job that paid legally.”

The look Dick gave him made him pretty sure it wasn't going to happen. But it was a _real_ look, not one that had been filtered through Dick’s weird idea of how best to pacify Jason. It meant he’d given Dick enough knocks to the head in this conversation to get something real peeking through, even if it that ‘something real’ looked a lot like Pissed Off Team Leader. 

Which meant Dick thought Jason was _on_ the team, and someday soon Jason was going to need to figure out how he felt about that.

But not today. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was for [Empires'](http://corruptedempires.tumblr.com/) prompt: "Dick appears on the Gotham's Kid Choice Awards" to which I made the counter offer of "Dancing with the Stars".


End file.
